


About-Face, or the Tale of a Not-So-Lonely-God

by thinkatory



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Gen, Innuendo, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-10
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-23 01:11:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkatory/pseuds/thinkatory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Third Doctor is trapped on Earth, and muses on his circumstances. <i>He doesn't feel like the Doctor today. The Doctor is a man who runs, a man who never stops, with no title besides the obvious and no real obligations. Now he has a stipend, and a car, and a new face that seems so much more responsible than the last two.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	About-Face, or the Tale of a Not-So-Lonely-God

The Doctor has never really had the luxury of feeling alone. When he was young there were always Time Lords everywhere, telling him what to do (especially Borusa). Then there was Koschei, who would never stop running and chasing and playing game after game, then Susan, insistent on joining him on any number of perilous adventures, then he'd stolen the TARDIS and picked up schoolteachers and mascot-carrying refugees. And it hasn't ever really stopped from there.

Except now it has.

He doesn't feel like the Doctor today. The Doctor is a man who runs, a man who never stops, with no title besides the obvious and no real obligations. Now he has a stipend, and a car, and a new face that seems so much more responsible than the last two.

If he didn't have two hearts he might nearly feel human. How disconcerting.

The TARDIS sings a song of captivity from its spot in the UNIT base, and he can't help but agree. The scientists of the twentieth century are more advanced than their predecessors, but that isn't saying much, so there's nothing to do but wait until UNIT offers him something interesting to do, and if there's one thing he's never been very good at (just the one thing, really) it's patience.

Jamie and Zoe are alive, and though he's grateful enough for that, he's also selfish enough to admit that they might as well be dead for all the good they're doing him now. It's all his fault they got dragged to Gallifrey, had their memories wiped, yes, but it's all Gallifrey's fault for thinking that doing good was not so good as doing _nothing_. Now it's him, and the Earth, which can be quite an adventure but a rather limiting one, and if it weren't for the Brigadier, he might well deem nearly five centuries of running as a fantasy concocted in a dream.

The _Time Lords_. Idiots. Blind, arrogant fools, who think it's their right to trap someone on Sol-3 and leave their TARDIS (type-40 or not) alone and creaking from disuse, after said someone was kind enough to turn in a real criminal like the War Chief –

He could hate the War Chief if hate would help at all, but it won't. Hate never does.

The Doctor is sulking like a child and he doesn't care, because the only thing that separates him from the humans swarming around him is a Time Lord consciousness and the two hearts in his chest.

"Doctor? There's tea," Liz mentions from the doorway, and saunters over to Bessie. He can see her high-heeled boots from where he's working under the transmission. "Whenever you're ready."

_I don't want tea_ is the first answer that comes to mind, then a crisp _Did I ask for tea?_ or perhaps _What a wonderful use of your doctorates, Miss Shaw_ , but then he shuts his mouth tightly and rethinks. "Thank you, Liz," he says, and pushes himself out from under the car. "Isn't she a lovely girl?" He pats her grill.

Liz is badly hiding her amusement. "Yes, obviously."

"I meant to name her for the Queen, you know. The first, of course. I'm very fond of her," the Doctor goes on, straightening his clothes as he stands. "Have you seen my cloak? Right," he concedes, as she picks it up, and buttons it for him, a fond half-smile on her face. "But I rather think now I might have named her for you."

"Do you expect that line to work, Doctor?" she answers, more bemused than anything.

"What line?" He thumbs her cheek, a cheeky half-smirk tugging on the side of his mouth, and brushes her aside to go for the tea. "Don't worry, Liz. I like you much more than Bessie. She can't operate my equipment with half the dexterity."

"Oh, thanks!" But she's laughing.

He smiles, just to himself, before he answers with great dignity, "Most welcome," and turns to lift his cup of tea to her.

He must concede, it may be lonely, but it could be worse.


End file.
